


feet they hardly touch the ground

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Arsenal FC, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-25 03:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10756065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: Flam owns a company that produces space robots. Mesut test pilots the robots. And something suspicious is afoot at Highbury Extraplanetary Mining Corporation.





	feet they hardly touch the ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> Dearest darlingest recip, Happy Spring Fling!
> 
> For the sake of fiction, there are no language barriers. By the year twenty-three thousand sixty-whatsit everyone speaks Generic Common Tongue anyway. Also I used Highbury as a name instead of Emirates bc a) it's nicer and b) I'm living in the past.
> 
> Title is from Walking on the Moon by The Police!

 

 

Mesut had gone through PR training, like everyone else on the station. It was part and parcel of the job: how to behave during visits from the management, what to say when an investor inquired after what he was doing, and how to talk to tourists.

The tourists were a funny one, because the length of time devoted to them during Mesut’s initial orientation implied that every day would bring a new wave of gaping civilians, shuttled in from Earth or Mars or wherever, all crowding the dull grey corridors of the station and staring in fascination at the steel monoliths that moved slowly across the dusty landscape of Andromeda Proxima IV, pecking at the dry planet surface for resources to be shipped back and crushed into materials usable for whatever it was people were buying these days. Most of it probably went towards the satellite colonies that whizzed around the planet. Mesut honestly didn’t know. He hadn’t been back to Earth for several rotations now: his pop culture knowledge was severely out of date and the last real, non-synthesised meal he’d eaten had been too long ago to even think about. But he did know how to talk to tourists.

A skill set that was completely useless, as the swarms of curious people never came to Andromeda Proxima IV. Why would they? Andromeda Proxima II was covered in multicoloured sand that could be heated at extreme temperatures and turned to gorgeous crystal. Andromeda Proxima V was almost entirely gaseous, and whipped up spectacular blue and purple storms that could be viewed safely from the state-of-the-art resort complex that orbited the planet. Andromeda Proxima IV was just a lot of reddish brown dirt and clay, heavily industrialised and not terribly beautiful. No tourists were going to spend bucket-loads of money getting off planetside just to come to Andromeda Proxima IV.

Not that Mesut minded. He preferred being able to work without the distractions of a hundred slack-jawed Earthlings who had never broken atmo before. He had friends in the kitchens on Andromeda Proxima V and it was apparently a nightmare in purest form.

No, as far as Mesut was concerned, the distinct lack of tourists was a definite advantage of working on Andromeda Proxima IV. It was just that more or less everything else was a disadvantage.

For one, the name _Andromeda Proxima_ had been given to their little cluster of planets by a scientist who had either a keen sense of irony or absolutely no humour whatsoever. Andromeda Proxima was so named because it was found in the near tail of the Andromeda Galaxy outskirts. Andromeda Proxima was _not_ so named because it was in any way, shape, or form close to Earth.

As a matter of fact, Andromeda Proxima IV was about as far from Earth as one could get. Even farther than Andromeda Proxima V, by some sorry twist of fate.

Mesut liked his job. And Mesut wasn’t particularly homesick for the Earth: he had always wanted to work in space, anyway. He could put up with Andromeda Proxima IV just fine.

He also liked the people he worked with, even if some of them could be annoyingly chipper in the mornings (Theo), or prone to conspiracy theory (Wojciech), or just plain confusing (Chambo). Or a little bit sticklers for the rules, like Per, who was currently coming around the corridor into the lounge where Mesut was flicking through the latest (read: at least three days old) news from Earth on his tablet.

“You weren’t in the hangar so I figured you’d be here,” said Per, ruffling Mesut’s hair in greeting. “I got a bunch of new films through the link-up. Movie night tonight?”

“Excellent. Can you send me the files?” Dull landscape and mind-boggling remoteness aside, the worst thing about Andromeda Proxima IV was undoubtedly the slow link-up connection with Earth. And the worst thing about the slow link-up was undoubtedly the lack of entertainment on base. As their head technician, Per had a larger allotment of data than normal, and could get television and movies slightly more quickly, and with better aspect ratios. So everyone usually watched what Per was watching. The English contingent on the base had even started genuinely enjoying Tatort.  

“Yes. Buut,” Per added significantly, “first there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

 

Per’s rooms were exactly like everyone else’s, with smooth curved walls of cream-coloured alloy and standard furnishings, but for some reason they always felt homier. Maybe it was the honest-to-god wool-knit blanket that Per always had neatly slung over the back of his standard-issue sofa. Maybe it was the cactus that he had somehow smuggled out from Earth. Maybe it was just his general presence.

Whatever it was, people usually liked hanging out with Per, which meant that Wenger appointing Per head technician had backfired slightly, since being called into Per’s office to be chewed out over whatever offence was less of a nasty lesson to be learned and more of a social call to a gently stern relative.

Mesut rocked back on the chair in front of Per’s desk and waited while Per apologised for the mess, which consisted of three sheets of A4 in a less than perfect stack and a pen which had rolled onto the floor.

“Okay, so,” said Per once he had filed the papers and picked up the pen, “this week is going to be a little bit different. Tomorrow there’s a visitor coming. They’re going to be riding with you for a few days.”

“A _tourist?_ ” Mesut asked, incredulous. He wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed that he would have to accommodate a deadweight in his rig, or amazed that anyone would come out to Andromeda Proxima IV for _fun._

“Not a tourist,” Per said, rendering Mesut’s inner conflict pointless. “A performance review.”

Mesut was immediately suspicious. “We’ve never had a performance review before. FIFA gets their profit every quarter, that’s enough of a review, right?”

“Not from FIFA. You’re going to be showing Mathieu Flamini around. The contractor Wenger hired to design and build our rigs. He wants to see his work in action.”

Now _that_ was interesting. Flamini was familiar, of course: his name was on every one of the Exo-Rigs in Highbury’s hangar, stamped into the little metal plate that adorned the back of the main control harness, detailing the date of production and the patent number and so such information. He did good work. Mesut had spent enough time putting every new series of rig through their paces, testing speed and durability, to know that Flamini’s designs held up well.

Interesting but still a bother. “I have to work through the full range of the new model by the end of the week,” Mesut complained. “I was going to go out to the pits tomorrow.”

“You still can, just bring Flamini with you,” Per said patiently. “One extra passenger, and not even a passenger who doesn’t know anything about anything. He won’t slow you down, Mesut. You’re not carrying the man on your back.”

“Yeah, well. Why don’t you send him with Santi? Santi _likes_ new people. Talking to new people. Talking in general.”

Per’s expression turned slightly pained. “Didn’t you hear? Bad run this morning. Santi’s out of commission for a few months.”

“What?! Just this morning?” Santi must have been out early. It was a bad development. Not just because Santi was one of their best pilots, which he was, but also because the frequency of accidents had been steadily racheting upwards over the past rotation, and it was only going to get worse. Highbury had been established a long time ago, and was remote enough that regular resupplies were few and far between. They were a well-run facility, sure, but after such a long time, there were a lot of bits and pieces being held together with duct tape and crossed fingers. And if Santi could have an accident in a rig, then anybody could.

That was the one problem that Mesut could think of with the Flamini rigs: there were simply not enough of them. Wenger was constantly putting in requests for more equipment, but either Andromeda Proxima IV was simply too far away to receive shipments with any kind of haste or Flamini wasn’t prioritising them. But maybe him coming to Highbury would change that.

Mesut wanted to ask Per what exactly had happened with Santi, but at that moment there was a quick, measured set of knocks on the door.

“Lolo,” said Per, pleased, and then louder, “ _Entre!”_

The door opened and Laurent came in. It was slightly unnerving how Per could identify someone just from the way they knocked at the door, but Mesut decided it was probably more likely that he and Laurent had developed a secret knocking pattern. It was the kind of thing that they would do, with the idea that it might come in handy in case of clone invasion or alien attack or something of that nature. Far-fetched and yet weirdly practical.

“Ça va?” Per asked, and then, having reached the extent of his French, switched back to Basic. Basic was more or less English that had been rebranded by FIFA as the international language of space. People had started actually using the name ironically, and then it had just stuck. “Do you need something?”

Laurent grinned. “Bien, bien, as always. Mesut, hello. What I need is lunch. Canteen?”

Per glanced down at his watch. “Sounds good to me. Mesut?”

“No, I have to get down to the hangar. I’ve already started late enough today.” He should get going. Especially with Santi out, there would be slack to pick up. Always something new.

 

The hangar was the largest building in the Highbury complex, because the rigs, while not as large as some of the stationary machinery that they used in the mines, were nothing to scoff at. Flamini’s designs usually clocked in at three to four metres tall, with bulky torsos and overly-long arms. Mesut liked the way they looked, vaguely like metal chimpanzees on two legs.

The Exo-Rigs had to be strong to deal with the actual work of mining and transporting the spoils of said mining, but also flexible. Mesut had never piloted some of the earliest models, back when the idea of building robotic shells for workers in heavy construction and mining had first been put to the test, but he had seen pictures. Too large and unwieldy and it was difficult for the pilots to do smaller jobs. The technology had steadily improved since then. The models Mesut worked with were quick and reactive without compromising their strength.

He was, thought Mesut as he popped the hatch of the rig and climbed up to settle into the harness, actually looking forward to meeting Flamini tomorrow. Mesut loved the rigs, and meeting the man who designed and built them might be fun. Flamini did do some of the best work around.

 

Officially, the greeting party when Flamini arrived was Wenger, Per, and Mesut. Unofficially, every single employee at Highbury was peering out whatever windows they could find. Ships from Earth rarely came out to Andromeda Proxima IV, and Flamini had arrived in style, in a tremendous silver-blue vessel with sleek fins that probably didn’t serve any real purpose but that looked _very_ cool. Mesut could see Danny and Kieran from engineering with their noses squashed up against the glass of the viewing deck overlooking the ship bay, like kids in front of a sweet shop.

The ship settled into the port with a low sigh, magclamps cradling it gently. The gangway unfurled itself from the side of the ship with the quiet unrolling of hundreds of metal plates slotted together like chain mail. Mesut shared a glance with Per. This was some high-class stuff.

The airlock slid back, and two people stepped out of the ship.

One of them was Mathieu Flamini. Mesut figured he had to be the man with short, wavy brown hair, wearing a neatly tailored dark suit, because the other man certainly wasn’t Flamini. Mesut knew the other man, bald with an egg-like head. He had seen his photograph enough times in the news.

Flamini shook hands with Wenger and then stood aside to allow the other to step forward.

“Mr. Infantino,” said Wenger, and Mesut could see his eyes narrow ever so slightly. “I did not realise you would be coming as well.”

“I thought you said no one from FIFA,” Mesut hissed to Per, in German just in case. Although Infantino probably spoke German. FIFA types generally did.

Per shrugged minutely. “I didn’t know.” There was a furrow in his brow that meant he was worried. Mesut didn’t blame him. FIFA usually only sent people out to the more remote reaches of their bureaucratic domain when they were getting ready to uproot the already complicated system of permits and ownership and replace it with an even more needlessly complex set of rules and regulations.

The UN occasionally threatened to have FIFA’s iron grasp on off-planet development weakened but had never gotten around to it. Between the mess on Earth to deal with and the bucketloads of money at FIFA’s disposal, they had retained almost one hundred percent control on all business taking place on the final frontier. FIFA _was_ supposedly only a regulatory body, thought Mesut warily, watching Infantino shake hands with Wenger with a plastic smile on his face. Interstellar Funding and Acquisition, supposedly distributing contracts and cash for firms to supply Earth with resources. But as Wojciech was fond of saying, the name was more accurately flipped around: the foundation for interstellar acquisition of money to fund their executives’ palatial satellites.

And now the president was making a surprise visit to Andromeda Proxima IV, a planet so boring it was almost a kindness to strip mine it dry. Infantino’s presence was worrying.

Fortunately, Mathieu Flamini was besides Infantino, and Mathieu Flamini seemed to be a rather more agreeable human being.

“Mr. Özil,” he said when Wenger introduced them, his accent curling Mesut’s name but not unpleasantly, “it’s very nice to meet you. I know this must be a bother for you, but I will do my best to keep out of your way. I’m looking forward to seeing the rigs in action.”

Flamini’s smile was warm and sincere. Mesut liked him immediately. “It’s no trouble,” he said, and could see Per roll his eyes behind Flamini, no doubt thinking about Mesut saying the exact opposite less than twenty-four hours ago.

 

The next day when Mesut arrived at the hangar Flamini was already there waiting for him, kitted out in a rig suit. He was examining one of the rigs that had come back yesterday with a twisted knee joint. It had probably been Jack. Jack had an unfortunate knack for damaging his rigs.

Flamini was looking at the joint with an expression of diagnostic concentration that Mesut knew well: that was the look of someone trying to figure out what had gone wrong. Mesut had obviously known that Flamini was the source of their equipment, but it was nice to have proof of the man’s interest.

“Mr. Flamini,” Mesut greeted him, cautiously optimistic that this entire thing wasn’t going to be as terrible as he’d been resigned to when Per had first dumped it on him. He wouldn’t mind spending time talking with Flamini about the rigs.

“Mathieu, please. If we’re going to be cramped together for a few days we should at least be on a first name basis, don’t you think?”

“Alright, Mathieu then,” said Mesut, pleased.

“Where are we going today, Mesut?” asked Mathieu, looking equally as pleased.

“To the mines. I thought we could put the rig through its paces, you could see the kind of work they’re actually used for. That sort of thing.”

“No objections from me.” Mathieu swung himself up onto the loading platform with ease. “Take us away.”

 

“You’re very at home in the rig,” Mesut commented. They were barely out of Highbury and he could already tell that much. Mathieu had slid into the harness with practiced ease and had been chattering knowledgably about the operation for the past ten minutes.

“Well, I have to be. I usually do most of the preliminary testing myself.”

“But you’ve never considered becoming a pilot?”

“Me?” Mathieu looked surprised. “Oh, no. No, I could never live off-planet.”

“Why not?” Mesut hadn’t been back to Earth in forever. More cycles than he could remember without looking it up on his sun-sync calendar.

“I like Earth too much, I suppose.”

Mesut made a face. Mathieu laughed. “Alright, it’s maybe not the nicest planet. Not anymore. But I’m doing my best to change that.”

Was he an environmentalist? That was unusual. Environmentalists tended to be humoured in the way of small children who wanted to be superheroes when they grew up. Environmentalist, emphasis on _mental,_ went the phrase. Harmless but utterly batty. Earth was done for and everyone knew it. For a highly regarded engineer to be an _environmentalist_ was a bit- whimsical. Mesut rather liked it.

They headed out to a mine that wasn’t being worked on that day. It would be easier to show Mathieu what the rig could do without anyone else getting in the way by doing _work._ Mesut steered the rig carefully down into the depths of the large cavern, conscious of the way he was showing off a little by manoeuvring into steadily narrower, trickier tunnels.

“Okay,” he said, reaching the end of the passage, “We’ll start digging here. The rigs are excellent for this, because they can dig themselves tunnels and also collect anything they happen to come across. Easier than using a independent tunnelling device and having to worry about accidentally destroying any resources.”

“This model is equipped with the new drill, right?” Mathieu asked, scrolling through a list on his tablet. “From the last upgrade. Is it actually an upgrade, or just a waste of metal?”

“Oh no, it’s an upgrade. The old drill was a nightmare to operate. Not,” he added with a grin, “that I ever had to operate one much. I arrived at Highbury just before it was replaced. But I’ve listened to Olivier complaining about it enough that I know.”

The laser drills were incorporated into the arms of the rigs. It allowed for much more precise work, and more efficient resource extraction.

“Alright, let’s have a look.”

Mesut activated the drill, and the rock in front of them exploded.

 _“Warning: rig breach. Warning, rig breach.”_ The cool voice of the computer spoke calmly over the sound of howling, screeching metal as shards of rock fired against the frame of the rig, the laser drill in its hand wildly sending smithereens everywhere.

“DEACTIVATE IT!” Mathieu bellowed over the terrible noise. There was an awful _crack_ as rock flew at the rig’s visor. The view screen flickered dangerously.

“IT WON’T RESPOND!” Mesut roared back. He had spun the rig around the second that the drill had exploded the rock, but instead of the thin, controlled laser that was expected, the laser drill was powering an enormous stream of energy that was ripping the entire tunnel to pieces no matter which direction Mesut faced. “WE HAVE TO GET OUT! THIS THING IS GOING TO BRING THE CAVE ROOF DOWN!”

“START MOVING! GIVE ME THE COMPUTER!” Mathieu made a frantic gesture at the computer controls. “TRUST ME!”

Mesut didn’t hesitate. He unlocked the computer and let it swing across the cockpit. Mathieu locked it in front of him, his fingers already frantically flying across the keyboard. What he was doing Mesut didn’t know: he was too busy pushing the rig forward, trying to keep the arm with the laser drill equipped from getting too close to the sides of the tunnel they had come through. It was an almost impossible task: the tunnel was narrow, and every time they dashed around a corner the rig was bombarded with shards of rock shattering against it.

_“Warning, armour breach. Warning, battery breach. Warning, visor compromised.”_

“Shut up,” Mesut ground out, dragging back on the controls as hard as he could. Underneath the cracking and screeching of rock and metal he could hear the tell-tale hiss of gas escaping. If the visor shattered they would only have the limited oxygen supply of the breathers in their rig suits.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mathieu was muttering rhythmically beside him. Mesut could see the command menu out of the corner of his eye. “What- what the fuck!?”

“A little late for that realisation!” Mesut yelled.

“No, it’s-! Oh, Christ-”

The rig was slowing down, the battery monitor draining rapidly. Battery breach, right. Fuck.

_“Warning, visor compromised.”_

Mesut opened his mouth to tell the computer to fuck off. And then, the noise stopped.

There was a _whirr_ as the laser drill depowered. Rock stopped bursting out of the cavern walls. The metal of the rig stopped taking what had sounded and felt like heavy artillery fire.

“ _Wow,_ ” said Mathieu, breathing heavily. He leaned back in his harness, face white. The computerised voice repeated the warning, and Mesut silenced it. The only sound in the cockpit for a few minutes was heavy breathing.

“What did you...?” Mesut asked finally, his heart rate returned more or less to normal.

“Had to turn the drill off manually through the computer.” Mathieu pushed the computer back towards Mesut. “See?” He pointed to the screen. “There was a rogue line of coding preventing the deactivation.”

“Rogue code?” Mesut cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” Mathieu’s face went grim. “Rogue code. Come on, let’s head back to Highbury before this thing falls apart.”

 

They managed to get the rig back into the hangar without any further disaster, and that was as far as they got. Mesut popped open the hatch and they both tumbled out onto the loading platform, exhausted. The hangar was blissfully empty, and they both lay there sprawled on the floor for a few minutes, just breathing.

“Why was the drill out of control?” Mesut asked, not sitting up but just staring at the ceiling of the hangar. “What _happened?_ ”

“Safeties turned off.” Mathieu hauled himself up and grabbed at the computer through the still open hatch of the rig, swinging it outwards. He tapped at the keyboard and brought up the control panel. “See? They can be turned off or adjusted from this menu, which is supposed to just allow the pilot to change the strength of the drill. But they were entirely off.” He ground his teeth, looking storm clouds at the screen. “That should never have happened. I know my machines inside and out, and that laser could only have been reprogrammed deliberately. All the safeties that were switched off to allow a blast that uncontrolled, and the activation programme hacked? Someone went in the computer and did that.”

“You mean sabotage?” The idea was incredible. Things went wrong so often that Mesut hadn’t even considered the possibility that this time, it may have been wrong on purpose. “But who would sabotage a test run? And _why_?”

“No one has a, oh, I don’t know, a grudge? Against you?”

Mesut wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think so. And I think a grudge big enough to try to _kill_ or seriously injure me, I would have noticed.”

Mathieu conceded the point. “No, you’re right. This wasn’t just a vindictive prank or so. Someone was trying to do damage here.”

“Could it have been someone trying to hurt your reputation as an engineer?” Mesut suggested. “Or our mining operations? Someone may not have realised that this is a test rig. They thought it would be operating the heavy machinery, to potentially cause a collapse or explosion or something.”

Mathieu looked thoughtful. “Makes sense. This might have been driven by business.” He laughed, a little bit wryly. “Well, most things do tend to be. There are other facilities here, right? Variously owned, I assume, because FIFA just loves a bit of competition for the mining rights, don’t they.”

“Yes. There are six operations on the planet, including us. The closest is White Hart, only a few hours away with a rig, closer with a shuttle.” Mesut looked at Mathieu sharply. “You really think this could be, um, company-related?”

“Like I said, most things are.”

“But would someone really try to do something so serious, a serious accident in one of the rigs, for some kind of business competition?”

Mathieu shrugged. “I’ve met a lot of people in space tech and development. Some of them very nice. Some of them not at all. You would know better than me, are there people at the other facilities who are not at all nice? Who maybe dislike Highbury? Do you know any of the other directors, or owners, who might go so far as to sabotage you in order to maybe make more money?”

“The other directors,” said Mesut, and began to tick them off. “Pochettino, he would not, I think. Too fair. Pellegrini...Blue Moon is changing directors at the moment, but they are very rich and are working on their own expansion. They have more to lose than gain by risking something so crazy. Who else...Klopp at Anfield, and- oh.” Once he’d reached it in his mental list of the other facilities on the planet, Mesut felt rather stupid. Was there anyone who disliked Highbury, Mathieu had asked. Disliked Highbury and wouldn’t mind hitting out below the belt.

Mathieu was watching him closely. “Yes?”

“Just south of here. Stamford.”

“Mourinho.”

“You know him?” asked Mesut, surprised.

Mathieu shook his head. “Not personally. But he has a reputation.”

“He also has bad blood with Wenger. If anyone is trying to sabotage us, I would put money on it being Mourinho.”

“Stamford,” said Mathieu, thoughtfully. “How far away it is?”

Mesut shrugged. “With a shuttle or a hopper, maybe an hour. You’re not- you’re not thinking of _going there?_ To what, have a showdown with Mourinho?” He’d said it as a joke but Mesut suddenly had a very clear image of Mathieu attempting to physically fight José Mourinho. It was concerningly possible.

Mathieu laughed, but a thoughtful laugh like he was considering it. “No, no. I know someone who works at Stamford. An old friend. I thought we might go ask him a couple questions.”

“We’re going to ask your old friend if his director is trying to kill us.”

“It’s a place to start.” Mathieu raised an expectant eyebrow. Mesut was beginning to realise that, once he no longer needed to play the part of the professional with business interests and corporate responsibilities, Mathieu was a bit of a wild card. “Are you not interested in knowing what’s going on here?”

“No, I am!” Mesut said hurriedly. “I am interested. It’s just- well, I have a job here, Mathieu. I work here, I live here. Not all of us are wealthy engineers on Earth.”

“Oh, don’t worry. We’re not going to get in trouble. You’re supposed to be showing me around and demonstrating the equipment, right? Well, I think I’d like to see how well the long-distance shuttles function. Maybe I can design some new ones. It’s not joyriding, Mesut. It’s _work._ And if we happen to go past Stamford and say hello to Cesc, then it’s just a whim of mine.”

It wasn’t as if they had any other suspects. And Mesut did want to know who had tried to kill him. He hadn’t had many near-death experiences, but he found they tended to make him curious.

“We’ll take the hopper,” Mesut conceded, making up his mind. “ _But,_ ” he said, interrupting Mathieu’s cheer, “you actually _are_ going to take a look at it because it is a _terrible_ vehicle. Bits are always falling off.”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Mathieu, and meant it. “We should change out of the rig suits. Won’t need them in the hopper, right? Meet back here in twenty minutes?”

“What, we’re going now?” Mesut said, alarmed. He had thought they would wait.

“Yeah!” Mathieu looked at him as though he’d never even considered the possibility that they _weren’t_ going to just leave immediately.

“Mathieu, we nearly just died an hour ago!”

“Are you in shock? I’m not feeling in shock.” Mathieu reached out and felt Mesut’s forehead. His hand was cool against Mesut’s skin. It wasn’t an intimate touch, but it felt like one for some reason. “I think you’re fine.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how you check for shock,” said Mesut, trying not to blush underneath Mathieu’s hand.

“It’ll do. Come on, Mesut. We should go before someone finds the mangled remains of the rig and we get stuck answering questions.”

Mesut rolled his eyes but Mathieu’s energy was infectious. “Fine. Twenty minutes, back here. And try not to talk to anyone! I still feel weird about going to Stamford!”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Mathieu waved a hand impatiently. “Twenty minutes!”

 

Despite his plea to Mathieu to keep their mission on the down-low, it was Mesut who ran almost immediately into trouble coming back from his room after switching out of his rig suit. He rounded a corner and nearly ran right into a little gaggle of people hanging about by the airlock.

“Hey, Mes!” Chambo was leaning against the wall, a holding a plastic bag of something. “Hey, we’re about to space some marshmallows to see what they do. Woj reckons that nothing’ll happen to them but Jenko says they’re gonna go flat in like, milliseconds.”

“Marshmallows are like seventy percent air,” said Jenko, in a tone of long suffering. “There’s no flipping _air_ in space, you numpties. They’re gonna go flat.”

Next to him Wojciech rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we know there’s no air in space. We sort of work here? Idiot.”

Chambo beamed. “Whatever happens, this is gonna be handbags any minute now. They’ve been arguing for days. Wanna watch? Make a bet?”

Mesut smiled weakly, his eyes flicking down to his watch about once every three seconds. “No thanks, I need to, um, be somewhere. Uh, training exercise. I have to do training exercises. Bye.”

 

(“Was he acting suspicious?” Chambo asked, watching Mesut disappear skittishly down the corridor. “Not just me, right? He was acting suspicious.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Kieran shrugged. “But we’re about to chuck a bag of marshmallows out the airlock so Woj and Jenko can stop clogging the comms with their stupidity, so can we really judge him?”

“Okay, you make a fair point.”)

 

“How do you know him, anyway? Your friend at Stamford,” Mesut asked, firing up the engines of the hopper. The turbines wailed in protest. Mesut ignored them.

“Cesc. Cesc Fàbregas,” said Mathieu. “It’s been a while since I last saw him, but we’ve kept in touch. He was a test pilot here, at Highbury. He actually did a lot of work on the beta programme for some of my first rigs. Most of the groundwork for the basic skeleton is still based on him.”

“He used to work for Highbury?”

“A long time ago. He spent a few rotations on an Explorer class ship, doing some kind of scientific research, I think. Or maybe it was a mapping mission. I forget. But then he decided to get back into the industry and wound up at Stamford.”

“How are we going to find him?” Mesut asked. Stamford was an enormous complex. Bigger than Highbury, which was nothing to scoff at either.

“Find Cesc? I presumed we were going to just walk in through the front door.”

Mesut stared at Mathieu. “We’re just going to glide up to Stamford and _walk right in?_ ”

“We’re visiting,” said Mathieu patiently. “It’s not a prison.”

“It might as well be,” said Mesut, feeling defensive. He hadn’t been treated to many hours of Chambo lecturing on the evils of Stamford Building just to have Mathieu waltz in like it was no problem.

“You can hide under the dashboard if you don’t want to be seen. I can drive us in.”

“I _will_ hide,” muttered Mesut, pushing the hopper to go a little bit faster as they cleared the hilly area that surrounded Highbury and moved onto the flat plains that made up most of Andromeda Proxima IV, the hazy bulk of Stamford on the distant horizon. “If anyone hears about this there’s going to be rumours I’m trying to defect.”

 

As it turned out, Stamford had a quite lovely visiting lounge, with a small meal synthesiser and real coffee machine that produced real, decent coffee. They only had to wait ten minutes before the door opened and a black-haired man in slightly too-large coveralls entered.

He closed the door and then stopped, staring at them. “Flams,” said- Cesc, presumably, his eyes going wide as dinner plates. “Oh _wow._ I didn’t actually believe the guy who told me- oh shit, what are you doing here?”

Mathieu grinned and opened his arms for Cesc to hug him enthusiastically. “Just visiting.”

“You’re never _just_ anything,” objected Cesc, releasing Mathieu. “Especially not just visiting when you’ve come from Highbury- yeah, I saw the hopper in the parking bay. Do you know how many hours I spent repairing that thing? Not going to forget it in a hurry,” he said, confirming Mesut’s suspicions that Highbury had never replaced any of its planetside vehicles, ever. He turned to Mesut with a friendly smile and an extended hand. “Hi. I’m Cesc.”

“Mesut,” said Mesut, taking the proffered hand.

“Do you work for Flams?”

“No,” Mesut shook his head, “At Highbury. I’m a test pilot.”

A funny look passed over Cesc’s face very quickly. Almost a wince, as though Mesut had trod on his foot. “Oh.” He recovered himself. “You get to play with the new rigs, huh?”

Mesut nodded. “Mathieu does very good work.”

“He does.” Cesc turned back to Mathieu. “Wish you would take our rig contract, too. Your stuff always had more comfortable harnesses than the Abramovich design we use here.” He grinned ruefully.

“Come back to Highbury if you’re so _uncomfortable,_ Cesc,” said Mathieu, a chilly edge in his voice, and Mesut wondered if he had accidentally opened a can of worms.

“That’s not fair, Flams,” said Cesc, mildly.

“No, it’s not,” said Mathieu, “but life isn’t fair.”

Cesc sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You can say that again. Well, why are you here, in any case?”

Mathieu glanced at Mesut. Mesut inclined his head slightly. Cesc seemed nice enough, but better to let Mathieu handle the conversation, even if they may have just gotten danger close to some sort of land mine buried years ago. Mesut trusted Mathieu not to actually set it off. Or at least, he thought he did.

“We need to talk about Mourinho.”

“Mourinho?” Cesc looked between the two of them quickly. He seemed slightly spooked. “What about Mourinho?”

Mesut wondered how Mathieu was going to ask Cesc if he thought his boss might have tried to kill them without, well, actually saying it. It _was_ an accusation, and Cesc probably would deny it. If someone asked Mesut if Wenger had killed someone, Mesut would have said no even if he’d seen Wenger stalking about the corridors with bloodstains all down his coat and a knife clenched in his bony fist. It was just a matter of basic loyalty.

Mathieu seemed to be wondering the same thing, because he tilted his head and asked, hesitantly, “Well, has he been- acting strangely lately?”

The look on Cesc’s face went from spooked to confused. “Wait- what? Mourinho isn’t _here_. He’s not at Stamford. I don’t know what he’s been doing.”

It was Mathieu and Mesut’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“He was sacked. We have a new director and Mourinho’s back on Earth. As far as I know,” Cesc added, doubtfully. “I sure hope he’s back on Earth.”

“You are being serious? How long ago?” Mesut asked, still puzzled. “We never heard. There was nothing about it at Highbury. I don’t even think Wenger knows.”

“Oh, Wenger knows,” said Cesc vaguely, before going red. “I mean- he probably knows. But it was kept quiet, you know. I don’t think the board wanted to freak the investors out, or whatever.”

“Huh.” That changed things. Mesut turned to Mathieu. “So that’s a dead-end.”

“Why was he sacked?” asked Mathieu, fixing Cesc with a curious look.

Cesc fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Erm. The board thought he’d been being, I guess, irrational or something? It was crazy around here for a while. Man.”

Mesut had only known Cesc Fàbregas for fifteen minutes but he could already tell that Cesc’s poker face left quite a lot to be desired.

“Really now.” Mathieu sounded sceptical, but he was smiling slightly. “I hope you’ve found a good replacement.”

“Yes,” said Cesc, somewhat defensively, “everything is fine here.”

“This new director of yours,” said Mesut, wanting to be thorough, “he didn’t take over Mourinho’s grudge against Wenger along with the job, did he?”

“Uh, no?” Cesc wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“There’s been an incident of sabotage at Highbury. We thought Mourinho may have known something about it,” said Mathieu, diplomatically.

“Oh, no.” Cesc shook his head. “Not coming from us.” He frowned. “Was anybody hurt?”

“No. But nearly.”

“Some people were in shock,” added Mesut, straight-faced.

There was a low buzz and Cesc fumbled about for a second before extracting a tablet with some difficulty out of a pocket in his coveralls. He swore at something on the screen and looked up apologetically. “I need to get back to the hangar. Some idiot is trying to- oh, do something with one of the rigs, I can’t even tell. It’s gonna be a mess.”

“Get back to work,” said Mathieu, clapping him on the back. “Sorry we couldn’t have time to catch up.”

“Still trying to save the Earth?” asked Cesc, jokingly but with a wistful sort of smile.

“Just in my spare time.” Mathieu paused. “It was good to see you, Cesc.” He grinned. “The beard looks good. You look less like a nine year old boy pretending to know what you’re doing.”

“Hey, I _always_ knew what I was doing. The beard just adds gravitas.”

“Sure, sure.”

And, with a quick hug for Mathieu and a wave to Mesut, Cesc was gone again.

They stood in the visitors’ lounge, uncertain what to do with the space he had left.

“Well,” said Mathieu at last, “that was Cesc.”

“He seems nice,” Mesut offered, slightly awkwardly.

“But unhelpful,” Mathieu said, frowning at the door through which Cesc had disappeared. “Oh well. C’mon, let’s head back to Highbury.”

 

Mesut slept uneasily that night, turning restlessly in his narrow bunk. The sound of the rig’s metal screeching as the rock had exploded, Cesc’s face when he had said _I’m a test pilot,_ the touch of Mathieu’s hand on his forehead.

 

There was nothing to do the next day but continue with their programme as though nothing was wrong. They had brought the problem forward to Wenger and shown him the ruin of the rig, and Mesut trusted Wenger to take him seriously, especially when there was a possibility of danger to his people. Wenger had looked at everything hard and advised Mesut to continue as usual- but to remain cautious. It was unsettling, but even Wenger seemed distracted of late. Maybe something to do with Infantino skulking around the halls, inspecting god-knew-what and dictating long emails on his tablet, muffled behind the doors of the guest suite he was staying in.

It had put him on edge, and Mesut’s reflexes were already hair-trigger, so when in the middle of demonstrating the range of movement that the rigs could tolerate in the lowered gravity of Andromeda Proxima IV the computer made an unexpected, shrill beep, Mesut nearly smacked the rig in the face with its own arm.

“What!? What is it!?” Mathieu looked at the view screen anxiously. Mesut was quietly mollified. Mathieu was so put together, it was relieving to know that he was just as tightly wound as Mesut was.

The computer made the beep again and Mesut swore. “Distress beacon. Damn. Someone’s probably had an accident.” He groaned. “I hope nothing serious.”

“An accident? Is that common?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We do our best but, you may have noticed in the hangar, too much of our equipment is too old. Highbury doesn’t exactly come first in the resupply line from Earth, either.”

“I’d been meaning to ask you about that, actually,” said Mathieu with a frown. “I’ve been handling the requisitions for new equipment and parts for Highbury for ages. Wenger puts in requests with FIFA and then it comes to me. But none of it seems to be making it out to you. Or at least, very little of it.”

“Really?” That was news to Mesut. He’d always assumed –as did the majority of Highbury- that FIFA was just ignoring Wenger. Or pushing him to the back of the queue. “Maybe someone is blocking the supply line? A business competitor, maybe? Someone trying to discredit you?” Mesut speculated, increasing the speed of the rig as he followed the distress beacon on the tiny map in the corner of the view screen.

Mathieu shrugged. “Most of my main competitors have fairly lucrative contracts themselves, and most of it should be going through FIFA anyway. I just don’t understand.” He shook his head. “When I get back to Earth I’ll have to check over everything. It could simply be a communications problem within my own company.”

The beacon was coming from one of the closer mining sites, for which Mesut was grateful. If there really was a serious accident, they wouldn’t have far to go back to Highbury for help. He sent a ping to medical just in case, and steered the rig into the mine.

The signal had been coming from the main cavern but inside it was dark and quiet. Nobody seemed to be about. Mesut activated the lights on the rig and turned about, searching. “Empty?”

“Scan for life-forms,” said Mathieu, peering through the view screen.

Mesut cocked at eyebrow at him. “’Scan for life-forms’?”

Mathieu shrugged, grinning faintly. “I just like saying that. Okay, try using the _infrared heat mapping filter_ , if you prefer.”

Mesut scanned for life-forms.

He turned the rig slowly, the view filter pulsing the gentle blues and greens of the cold cavern walls. And there, a single beating red shape, up high above the ground. Mesut turned off the filter and squinted at where it had been: in the shadowy corner of the cavern amidst some of the stationary machinery.

“Someone’s in the control box,” Mesut said, walking the rig forward to take a closer look. “But who would-”

“LOOK OUT!”

A large shadowy shape had detached itself from one of the machines near the roof of the cavern and slammed into them; Mesut reacted entirely on instinct, bracing the rig for impact and taking the brunt of the contact on its shoulders. The rig shuddered and protested, but remained upright.

“Jesus _Christ,_ ” said Mathieu, his voice as close to shaking as Mesut had ever heard it. That almost frightened him more than the actual steel plate pressing down against the groaning shoulder joints of the rig. Mathieu was supposed to be the man with the plan for every occasion.

But apparently not this occasion.

“Are you alright?” Mesut asked, the lack of tremor in his own voice more down to pure surprise than anything else. A small voice in the back of his head made an impersonal note that if his reaction time hadn’t been so good, they would be on the ground right now. As it was the rig was nearly doubled over, the spine of the machine curved so far Mesut didn’t dare try to move the arms back for fear of over-stressing the hydraulics.

Although really, _over-stressing the hydraulics_ was probably quite low on the list of things to worry about at the moment.

“I’m alright,” Mathieu said, and he still hadn’t quite regained control of himself. “You?”

“I’m fine.” But for how much long, was the question.

“What the _hell_ is that machine?” Mathieu squinted at the view screen, but the angle of the rig’s visor was being forced down and all that the screen showed was the ground.

“Um, it’s got a long technical name but we usually call it the Pulveriser.”

“ _The Pulveriser!?”_

Yeah, now that Mesut thought about it, it didn’t really sound too reassuring.

“I can not believe,” said Mathieu, and Mesut was relieved to hear that he sounded furious rather than terrified, “that Highbury, a top-tier operation which I _personally_ ensure is kept functional with all the latest in Exo-Rig technology, is using a machine called the _Pulveriser,_ whose apparent function is simply to _pulverise!_ It’s Stone Age, it’s a direct insult to me and my work, it’s-”

Whatever else the Pulveriser was Mesut didn’t find out, because at that moment the screen flashed up with something more interesting than the cavern floor: a request for transmission.

All Highbury equipment had default communication settings adjusted to the same channel, a feature which was supposed to be used in case of emergency but was mostly just _ab_ used by the rig crews, all of whom were inordinately fond of off-key singing. All the rigs and heavy mining machinery were able to communicate with each other through video and audio links. Whoever was behind the controls of the Pulveriser was trying to speak to them.

Mesut glanced at Mathieu, who was looking hard at the screen.

“Mathieu?”

“Go ahead.”

Mesut accepted the request. The view screen fizzled slightly as it brought up the visual, which was a worrying sign. Mesut wanted to run a diagnostic on the rig to find out how much damage it had taken from the impact, but at the moment he was preoccupied. Preoccupied staring at the bald head on the screen. When the question of possible sabotage had come up they had been so busy narrowing down the list of potential enemies on Andromeda Proxima IV that they hadn’t even thought about other factors. Newly introduced factors.

“Infantino,” said Mathieu, his voice utterly flat.

“Mr. Flamini,” said Infantino, sounding delighted. “How _good_ to see you. I thought you might be tucked away in there, but it never hurts to double-check. _Adieu,_ Mr. Flamini.”

The video link went black. Above them they could hear the low keening of metal as the rig’s shoulders scraped against the weight bearing down on them.

“You didn’t seem too surprised to see him,” said Mesut. For someone who Mathieu had been working with for some time, Infantino’s appearance had garnered very little reaction.

“I have a natural suspicion of authority,” said Mathieu with a perfectly straight face.

Mesut didn’t find that hard to believe at all.

The Pulveriser was used to crush rock debris that had been excavated or had caved in from the mine shafts. Mesut knew the machine’s specs: the enormous weighted plate that was pinning them down was far heavier than anything the rig had been designed to withstand. The fact that they weren’t currently in a far more pancake-like state of being meant that Infantino hadn’t let the plate fall on them, but was holding it in place for some reason. Mesut didn’t like it.

Mathieu seemed to have come to the same realisation. “He’s trapping us.”

It was unnerving just being trapped underneath the tremendous foot of the machine. Mesut wondered why Infantino hadn’t started applying pressure yet. Maybe he was letting them squirm. Maybe he just hadn’t figured out how to fully work the controls yet.  “Mathieu,” said Mesut calmly, “I do not want to be crushed to death by the Pulveriser.”

“Me neither. He hasn’t actually done it yet, though; I’m going to talk to him.”

“Will that help in any way?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. He’s from FIFA, Mesut. They all love monologuing.” He reached over to the controls and keyed in a request for comm link.

“What if he doesn’t open the channel?” Mesut asked, doubtfully. He didn’t see why Infantino wouldn’t just ignore Mathieu’s request and proceed with the pulverising.

At that moment Infantino’s face popped back up on the view screen. Mathieu gave Mesut a significant look. “Told you.” He cleared his throat. “Gianni. What do you want from us?”

“What do I want? I would have thought obvious. I want you dead.” Infantino turned his gaze to Mesut. “And that would be the singular _you,_ by the way. Mr. Özil is just unfortunate collateral. But accidents happen all the time. Or so I’ve heard.”

“And why do you want me dead?”

“Why do you _think,_ Mr. Flamini? Is there anything that comes to mind? Anything we may have _clashed_ on in the recent past?”

Mathieu scrunched up his forehead. “What? I don’t- oh, Green Fields?” He seemed taken aback. “This is about Green Fields?”

“You were advised against continuing the Green Fields project,” said Infantino, coldly.

“On the basis that the technology was not feasible,” Mathieu said in a sharp tone, his eyes narrowed. “I _made_ it feasible, I made Green Fields possible. FIFA’s _advice_ was no longer relevant.”

“So you decided to start without reapplying for a permit. _Illegally_ setting in motion a project that had been denied. The reason for that denial is a non-issue.”

“I was given the go-ahead from Figo. Personally.”

“Ah. Figo.” Infantino smiled thinly. “Figo may have held some sway when you last spoke to him but he has been- voted down from the Home Commission.”

“Christ,” muttered Mathieu so only Mesut could hear him, “I hope they haven’t killed him. I like Figo.”

Mesut was alarmed. Sure, everyone hated FIFA, but there was a difference between corporate greed and corporate _murder._ But apparently the line between the two was thinner than expected.

“He no longer heads the Home Commission council,” said Infantino, before smiling the smuggest smile that Mesut had ever seen. “I have taken over that position. Home Commission and Chair for the Colonies Project.”

“Oh god, the Colonies Project,” said Mathieu, understanding dawning in his voice. “Holy shit, this is about the _Colonies Project!?_ You’re insane!”

“Green Fields would have been successful, is that what you’d like to hear? Your little terraforming project would have rendered the Earth utterly, disgustingly habitable again. Congratulations.”

“And made your investments in extraterrestrial colony bases worthless.” Mathieu’s lip twisted. “So you will let the Earth consume itself until there’s nothing left but a ball of tar and smog. All to continue making a _profit._ ” The absolute fury in his voice was genuinely frightening. Mesut had never seen anything close to the level of anger he was positively radiating.

“Please. Don’t be naive, Flamini. You’re a businessman as well. You understand. The Earth has been ‘tar and smog’, as you so evocatively put it, for a long time. Accept that and move on. It’s not a crime to take advantage of a bad situation. It’s a business opportunity.”

“But it _is_ a crime to work at actively undermine anyone who might get in the way of your _business opportunity,”_ Mathieu spat.

“Mathieu,” said Mesut quietly, opening a window on the computer, “I would advise you to brace yourself.”

“What?” Mathieu said, but he had already instinctively followed Mesut’s advice, and so Mesut tapped at the computer, and activated the laser drill.

The hand of the rig that the drill was attached to _jerked_ , as the force of the laser shot out of it right into the surface of the metal weight that it was pressed flat to. The Pulveriser was made of an alloy combination designed to do damage without _being_ damaged by any of the many materials it might be pulverising. The laser drill was designed to be able to cut even the heavier elements that could be mined from the depths of Andromeda Proxima IV.

The weighted plate was very heavy. The laser drill, with the safeties disengaged, was very powerful. The resulting reaction was loud and quick. The foot of the Pulveriser lifted, ever so slightly and, with a horrible wrench, the arm of the rig attached the drill was torn clean off. Loud and quick, but Mesut was quicker. He hauled back on the controls and _rolled_ , snatching the rig out from underneath the leaden weight and dashing across the cavern as the laser drill, unattached to anything anymore, spun wildly up into the air, it’s own force driving it clear across the cavern right into the control box of the Pulveriser.

To say there was an explosion would have been an understatement. When the dust had cleared it seemed more as though there had been a small war. The Pulveriser was in two pieces: the heavy plate now dropped fully to the ground, and a pile of rubble that had once been the control box. Rubble that was, at least partly, comprised of Giovanni Infantino.

 “We- we may have just killed FIFA,” said Mesut, a little bit shocked.

Mathieu waved him off rather airily for someone who had just witnessed an actual death. “I wouldn’t worry about it. They’ll grow themselves a new head. They always do.” He was looking at Mesut with an expression of dazed amazement. “How did you-”

“I turned off the drill safeties. There was a possibility that it was going to just blow us up but-”

“But Infantino would have squashed us anyway, so-”

“I figured it was worth a go,” Mesut completed. “Did you-”

Mathieu interrupted him again. This time, not with anything that he said. The kiss was slightly awkward due to them both being strapped into their harnesses, but it was more or less the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to Mesut. There was something floaty happening in the region of his fingers and toes. The phrase dancing feet had never made so much sense.

When Mathieu pulled back, he was still looking at him with a sort of shine in his eyes that made Mesut want to blush and bask at the same time. “Mesut,” he said, glowingly, “I’m going to take you out to dinner. And I’m not talking synthesised burritos from the canteen. Next Friday, eight o’clock, planet Earth?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In a parallel universe where I actually started this fic a responsible amount of time before the deadline, there would have been more ensemble stuff with the rest of the Arsenal crew, but tragically I have to live in _this_ universe, and very much did not start writing until like five minutes ago. WHEN AM I GOING TO WRITE A PROPER ENSEMBLE FIC FOR ARSENAL. god please give me strength
> 
>  
> 
> also I just couldn't resist the Cesc stuff. Even if he supposedly wasn't actually one of the Chelsea players undermining Mourinho last season. Let me dream!


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